As you’re reading this, I’m enjoying a long-awaited vacation in Southern California with my wife and mother-in-law. We’re staying at a cozy resort just south of Orange County. For my mother-in-law, it’s a dream come true — her first chance to dip her toes in the Pacific Ocean. For my wife, it’s about visiting Disneyland and taking in Hollywood. For me, it’s something deeper — a spiritual journey to reconnect with my late mother’s side of the family.
My mother, Ethel Mae Glee Adams, passed away in 2019 from lung cancer. She was a lifelong smoker, and we lost her too soon. Her parents have long since passed, and her two sisters disappeared from our lives years ago. I’m not even sure if they’re still alive. They simply went off the grid.
My mom was born and raised in the Santa Ana and Irvine area near Los Angeles. She met my dad when he was stationed at the now-closed Marine Corps Air Station El Toro. I was born in the summer of 1982 at the University of California Irvine Medical Center and spent my earliest days on the base. When my dad was honorably discharged in 1983, we moved to his hometown of St. Marys, West Virginia — the place I’ve called home ever since.
As a kid, I looked like a true California boy: blonde hair, tan skin. I even used to brag to the girls that I was from California. But time passed, the tan faded, my hair turned brown, and glasses replaced that sunny look.
I never made it back to Southern California until now. My grandfather on my mom’s side later moved to Northern California, and he brought me and my dad out there when I was in middle school. I have fond memories of walking among the redwoods, boating on Folsom Lake, and seeing Folsom Prison — the one Johnny Cash made famous. He passed away in 1998.
I never really knew my maternal grandmother, Ethel Mae Joyce Floodstrem, as my grandfather had remarried. I only remember one phone call with her when I was a kid. I briefly met one aunt, Shirley, during a trip to Boise, Idaho, when I was five, but she vanished afterward. I last contacted the other aunt, Sharlene, in 2019 when I sent her my mother’s ashes. Her children — my cousins — are long out of touch. The only known relative from that side is a cousin of my mom’s who lives in Huntington Beach, and I hope to meet her while I’m here.
I’m almost 43 years old and have lived in West Virginia for 42 of those years. I’m a West Virginian through and through. But a part of me has always held onto that California connection, even if it’s mostly through memory.
While California’s sun stirs nostalgia, political drama back home in West Virginia pulls me back to the present. Just before I left, I was surprised to see U.S. Sen. Jim Justice send out a late-night press release celebrating West Virginia’s April tax revenue numbers. The headline alone raised my eyebrows — why was a U.S. Senator so invested in the state’s budget details?
It turns out, Justice was taking a shot at current Governor Patrick Morrisey. Morrisey had claimed there would be a $400 million hole in the fiscal year 2026 budget. Justice refuted that in his statement, claiming the warning was misleading and that he’d never lie to the people of West Virginia.
To be fair, we won’t have a budget shortfall because the Legislature passed — and Morrisey signed — a balanced budget as required. Still, Justice’s comments seem aimed at defending his own record, especially since he used plenty of one-time funds to balance budgets in his time. Morrisey may be using some now, but his budget director, Mike McKown, isn’t a fan of relying on temporary fixes.
Justice’s unexpected comments raise questions. Is he considering a return to the governor’s mansion in 2028? He’ll be approaching 80 then, but some say he still misses the job. My recent interaction with him in D.C. suggested he’s enjoying his current role, but the tension between him and Morrisey is clearly bubbling under the surface.
For now, I’m focused on the waves, the breeze, and the memories. But I know once I return, West Virginia’s political tides will still be churning.
